Sam had his story told on New Year's, so I felt it was only fair to give Andy her chance on Valentine's Day. (I've been writing lots of Sam recently, so I hope Andy isn't too rusty!)
Not fluffy, per se, but definitely holiday-themed. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rookie Blue.
She hates Valentine's Day.
Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration.
She doesn't hate it. She just… dislikes it.
Not for any of the reasons that are popular in her twenty-something age bracket. She dreads Valentine's Day with the same fervor each and every year, whether she has a boyfriend or not.
She isn't vocal about it, of course. If people want to celebrate, why ruin their fun? She doesn't have a vendetta against the pomp and circumstance. The showy, public displays. The overpriced bouquets of long-stem roses and chocolate-covered strawberries; the parade of garish stuffed animals, beady-eyed and smirking from their perch on colleague's desks.
(Okay, maybe it has a little to do with the stuffed animals. It's less rampant in the Barn, thank god. That office job she took in college to supplement her tuition? By the end of the day, that place looked more like the kitschy pink offspring of a Hallmark store and a ring toss booth. The air was heavy with aromatics and hours-old coffee, the smell of red roses mixing artfully with the stale air of the break room. She had begged off early, citing illness.
She hadn't lied. She was suffering from a squeal-induced migraine, the gasps of animated coworkers echoing noisily in her head.)
The second week of February? Well. It's never particularly pleasant.
It's easy to pretend that the day doesn't affect her: In years past, she was either an independent woman, content with her single status (clandestine uploads of Destiny's Child to her iPod aside), or a low-key girlfriend who didn't need the fuss and attention of February 14th.
She likes the conversation hearts, sure. But that's her loyalty to sugar and artificial flavoring, not a mark of her commitment to anything – or anyone – else.
Reaching into her desk drawer, she pulls out a bag of hearts and pops one in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
Once upon a time, Valentine's Day was a nice memory.
Her dad used to say Valentine's Day wasn't just a day for lovers. It was a day for men to spoil their wives, but it was also a day for dads to spoil their daughters.
When she was a kid, it was about family. Her dad used to come home with a pizza in the shape of a heart and a bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back. Andy's mom would feign surprise, oohing and ahhing over the arrangement, before kissing his cheek, a grateful but wordless Thank you.
Setting the pizza on the kitchen countertop, Tommy would spin on his heel, shuffling for dinner plates and pretending not to see Andy or her eager, expectant look. After a minute or two, she'd lose her patience, whining, "Daaaddd…" and he'd turn sharply, taken by surprise.
"Oh, is that you kiddo?"
"Dad, c'mon."
He'd grin, reaching into his pocket for a tiny teddy bear. "Happy Valentine's Day, Andy."
(There's, uh, maybe another reason why she hates the stuffed animal circuit.)
They would sit cross-legged on the couch, fighting over the pizza with the best crust, some hokey RomCom playing in the background. She would ask how the pizza man made the heart-shape, and her dad used to laugh, insisting that he had special-ordered it from Cupid. Her mom would pick at her slice, alternately shushing them or smiling softly, the muted strains of Meg Ryan's or Sandra Bullock's dialogue in the background.
Those were the early years.
They fought, later. Nights filled with screaming and the harsh slam of the front door.
Valentine's Day remained sacred, at least for another year or two. Her dad would come home, her mother would accept the flowers, and they'd set up camp before the TV. Fewer giggles but a familiar routine, just the same.
She knows now: Hollow efforts aren't made to last.
She remembers the first Valentine's Day her dad didn't come home.
The first Valentine's Day her mom cried hot, angry tears.
The first Valentine's Day she had cereal for dinner and tucked herself in early, staring listlessly at the patterns of her bedroom ceiling.
It became the holding pattern for the McNally family: Late nights at the Barn for her dad, lonely mornings in the bar. Her mom stayed until she just couldn't take it.
Take him.
Take her.
She doesn't know.
(Her mom didn't take her, that's for damn sure.)
She remembers that first Valentine's Day without her.
Remembers the heavy weight of her dad's body, leaning into her as he stumbled through the front door.
Remembers hopping into the shower, scrubbing off the reek of alcohol and smoke that seemed to soak through her clothes and linger in her hair.
It was the first time she poured the entire contents of their liquor cabinet down the sink.
(It wasn't the last time.)
She didn't cry. She had done enough of that already.
The day became more of a funeral than anything else: A lonely tribute to years gone by, and a stark reminder of what was missing from her future.
She had a boyfriend, here and there, who had tried. A box of chocolates, a hastily purchased card… She had smiled perfunctorily and thanked him, though the gifts ended up in the trash by the end of the day.
She had allowed herself to be cautiously optimistic with Luke. He was a good guy, and when he brought the date up in early January, he seemed genuinely excited to do something.
She wasn't going to take that from him. So, for the first time in years, she mustered some level of excitement for the approaching holiday.
Luke had sent flowers to her apartment, an extravagant display of roses and calla lilies in a beautiful crystal vase. He had timed the delivery with her return home from the night shift, and seeing them, she was moved by his thoughtfulness. She fingered the delicate petals and carried the vase inside, smiling softly. Pouring a bowl of cereal, she enjoyed the aesthetic while she ate. Moments later, she fell into bed with a contented sigh.
Waking in the early afternoon to a familiar, shrill cry – she hadn't silenced the ringer – she fumbled for her phone. Blearily identifying the caller ID, she greeted Luke with the hint of a smile on her lips. "Hey, babe."
He had to cancel their dinner reservations, postpone until another night. He had a break in a case, a string of gang-related stabbings, and it was impossible for him to leave work. He had been sincere and profusely apologetic, and she had understood.
She hadn't minded. Not really.
At least she didn't have to jump through hoops to glam herself up. She could fall back into bed, sweatpants and a messy ponytail for the rest of the day.
He had texted once more, several hours later. It was before she had fallen asleep, bundled in a fleece throw and slumped on the sofa, with an empty wineglass on the table in front of her.
Another apology, a promise for dinner that week.
She had accepted his offer for dinner, assuring him she was fine.
(She had tried not to wonder if this was what her mom and dad looked like, once upon a time.)
The slam of a desk drawer jolts her from her reverie, and she looks around, visibly startled. Across the room, Sam catches her eye and tips his head, quirking an eyebrow.
She smiles belatedly, smoothing the creases from her forehead. She fusses with her ponytail self-consciously, a brief concession to her discomfort.
He notices.
(There's not a lot that gets past him.)
He wanders over, stopping briefly at the coffee bar. He fixes a new cup, two creams no sugar, before refilling his own.
Sliding the cup across her cluttered desk, he gently squeezes her shoulder, his warm hand conveying more than any words could.
She looks up and smiles, genuine this time.
His gaze flickers to her mouth and he swallows, his lips tugging at the corners. "Make sure you're done by four, okay?"
She nods in assent before returning to her paperwork, dismissing him.
He's gone with a half-smile and a quick flip of her ponytail.
They hadn't talked about Valentine's Day, not really.
(He had asked, once. She had shrugged off the idea of concrete plans.)
Sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, she wonders if maybe she should have been a little more forthcoming. Their relationship is familiar and easy; his presence in her life, comfortable… Maybe that's why she balks at the idea of talking about years past. She doesn't want to mess with the good thing they have, burden him with history and grief and expectation.
They've only been dating for two months, and she feels stuck in this awkward middle-ground between vulnerability and too-much-too-fast. She doesn't want to be a stage-five clinger, needy and dependent, especially when it comes to something as overtly commercial as Valentine's Day.
(Sam doesn't seem like the Valentine's type, anyway.)
As his partner, she had learned about him slowly, rare sprinklings of truth and admission in the field. They were powerful and telling, and those brief glimpses into his heart? They were what made her fall for him in the first place, long before her brain got a clue.
As his girlfriend –
She pauses, lost in thought. Girlfriend? It's a word that, when she thinks about it, seems stupidly new and inadequate. Because that means he's her boyfriend, and yet the depth of feeling she has for him, the emotion that tugs at her heart…
It's a little different than what she's experienced with other "boyfriends," that's all.
Anyway.
As his girlfriend, she has seen a different side to him. Still Sam, but more dimensional. He's a little softer, a little goofier. She loves the gruff exterior, but she loves the heart inside even more.
She loves...
Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a squeak.
When…
When did that happen?
He glances at her from the driver's seat, his brow furrowed. "Everything okay, McNally?"
She recovers, brushing her bangs from her eyes and shaking her head. "Yeah, great. Sorry about that. I, uh, thought I saw something hit the windshield."
He stares at her a beat longer than necessary, then shrugs, returning his gaze to the road. "Okay, then."
She sighs, the air whooshing from her lungs.
In some ways, this new facet of their relationship is easy. In other, deeper ways? It's more difficult than she could ever imagine.
He ushers her into his house, flipping the hall light on and hanging her coat. She can smell something cooking. Beef and vegetables and spices; something delicious and homey…
She swallows, an unbidden wetness pooling in her eyes as realization dawns.
He reaches for her hand, tugging her into the kitchen and guiding her to a barstool. His gaze is serious, but there's a hint of a grin on his lips.
"Okay, so I know you didn't want to do anything, but uh. Here's the thing: It's our first Valentine's Day. We may not be party people, and we may not buy into the whole material racket, but that doesn't mean it can't be special, right?"
She nods slowly, not trusting her voice.
"I have to check on the stew; it's been in the crock pot all day, and there are a couple other things to prep. But that means…" he cuts off, reaching into the freezer and extracting a pint of ice cream, "That means you get dessert first, you sugar junkie."
Holding a spoon, he slides the pint across the counter, gauging her reaction.
(The pint? It's a special order from that Mom-and-Pop creamery she loves so much.)
Rubbing the back of his neck, he smiles, quick and easy. "For the record, this doesn't mean I approve of dessert first, but, you know… Special day and all."
She's flummoxed... Special day.
Yeah. Yeah, it is.
Staring at the pint, her mind wanders.
She wonders if one person has the power to change your reality… Not alter your history, but help heal the wounds of days gone by. Bring you into the future, a happier, more confident person.
Confident in yourself. Confident in your relationship.
She's taken every number of stupid quiz – "Is He the One?" and "Will It Last?" – and she's never put much stock into it. They're fun diversions, sure, but you can't get at the heart of love in (A) (B) (C) fashion, circling a letter and tallying a score.
(She's pretty sure those quizzes weren't made for the Sam Swareks of the world.)
She doesn't need a stupid answer key telling her that this…
Whatever this is…
This is right.
It's different this year. Everything is different this year.
"Andy?" he interrupts her reverie, a hand on her shoulder.
She stares at him, slightly awestruck, before shaking her head.
"Thank you," she whispers softly, wrapping her arms around him.
"Hey, don't thank me just yet," he jokes, eyes twinkling as he sweeps a hand across her back. "It's hard to mess up a meal in a slow-cooker, but you never know." He pulls her close, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Wait for the final verdict."
"You're the best," she insists, a quiet murmur against his chest. "Thank you."
He bends his head, pressing his lips to her forehead before meeting her mouth.
After a long moment, he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers. "You and me? It means something, even on hokey holidays."
Smiling, she wipes at her eyes and releases him, motioning him to the crock pot. Her fingers pop the lid of the ice cream pint, and she takes a bite, relaxing into the barstool.
His gaze lingers briefly - His eyes light, full of affection. Turning to the fridge, he opens the crisper and begins his search for ingredients, focusing on the task at hand.
"Sam?" she says suddenly, the spoon dangling from her lips.
His head pops out comically from behind the door. "Yeah?"
"I know I've been a little off these past few days. There's something I want to talk to you about...after dinner...if we could."
He nods in understanding, their eyes locked. "Is everything okay?"
"It wasn't," she answers honestly, moving past the refrigerator door to stand behind him.
Resting her head on his back, she hugs him gently, her arms encircling his waist.
"But it will be."
Happy Valentine's Day, all.